


i was a heavy heart to carry

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, Arthur knew he deserved what he got. Other days, he still knew it, but he wrapped himself in self-pity, let it encase him like a security blanket, and didn’t know how to settle without it.</p><p>It felt like one of those days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was a heavy heart to carry

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Florence + The Machine's "Heavy In Your Arms".

It lasted two years beyond the point it had any right to, two years beyond the point Arthur gave in, gave into the antagonism and the barbs and the poorly veiled flirting. He woke up the next morning, and, eyes still shut, wondered whether Eames cared enough to leave a note.

Because that’s the way Eames was. He gathered people to him like chips, and discarded them when they’d served their purpose. He opened his eyes, betting on no note, maybe a call in a few months for a job, Eames the same, like nothing had ever happened.

Instead he got the sound of the shower starting up, and when Eames returned, steam dogging his steps, a towel low slung on his hips, Arthur couldn’t gauge his expression. Eames didn’t show anything he didn’t want to, and it was one of the many things that drove Arthur crazy, the utter control he had over himself. It made him a good poker player, a better forger.

Except this time, Eames had let the face drop, and Arthur could never find the right word for the look, even years later. He thought it was soft, maybe. Tender. There wasn’t a word good enough for it, but he kept trying to find it.

*

Arthur was in a dream made up of soft greens and daisy yellows. A park somewhere, Arthur on a bench, and beside him, Eames.

“I miss you,” Arthur said, curved a hand over Eames’ cheek like an offering.

“I know, duckling,” Eames said, the kind of endearment he wouldn’t get away with in reality, but Arthur would take what he could get. He’d turned his face into Arthur’s hand, and Arthur could feel day-old stubble scratching against his palm.

And then Eames disappeared, because even subconsciously, Arthur never got what he wanted.

Arthur woke up with the throb of Somnacin in his veins and a headache that just wouldn’t quit.

*

It’d been the kind of fight people in relationships get into. That’s the stupid part. They’d been bickering, and bickering turned into a genuine argument somewhere down the line, and then it was that Arthur worked too hard, that Arthur never stopped.

For anyone else, it’d be easy, be domestic, but Arthur working too hard left bruises in the shapes of shoes along his ribs, meant stretches of radio silence between them as Arthur lay low. Arthur working too hard was going to get him killed, and he knew it, and Eames knew it, and Eames had had just about enough.

Eames had asked, once or twice, asked him to stop, and then slow, and then, maybe, to take a month, just a month, they'd go somewhere, anywhere he'd wanted, but he needed to stop jumping in before the bruises faded, jesus, he wasn't infallible, if he had a death wish then he wasn't going to be dragged down with him.

Arthur hadn't listened until Eames had let the door slam and the silence settle, and then it was as loud as wartime.

*

Eames was in Prague. He was in Prague, working a job with people Arthur deemed satisfactory, if subpar. The thing was, Eames could drop off the face of the earth if he wanted to, knew Arthur well enough to seek his blindspots. But he used aliases Arthur knew, well-worn and with lengthy paper trails. It’d be a hassle for him to create another, but if he’d wanted to, he could.

So that was the standstill they were in.

The job went wrong, and Arthur found out, knew before they did, probably, and he made some calls, arranged for passage out from Prague.

Eames called him the next morning.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said. He sounded tired.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said.

“That wasn’t actually a thank you,” Eames said. “Are you stalking me?”

“It’s not stalking,” Arthur said, even though he couldn’t quite make that the truth.

Eames only snorted. It sounded entirely without humour, an ugly sound that made Arthur ball his hand into a fist, then uncurl it, watching the shift of tendons under his skin.

“I needed to know where you were,” Arthur said, finally.

“And I’m sure you knew,” Eames said. “You always do.”

“I don’t mean—“ Arthur said, and then, his voice so small it barely drifted over the line, “I need you here.”

There was only silence then, a tentative bridge marked by the way Eames inhaled, exhaled, the way Arthur was breathing too fast.

“I wish that was true,” Eames said, quiet, and then the line went dead, and Arthur was alone again.

*

Arthur self-medicated, the day after Eames left with bursts of sound and then the silence of absence, spent days in a daze of alcohol, shied from his PASIV because it would only make time stand still.

Arthur had only the bottle of vodka and the hum of Eames’ voicemail, his recording curt and unfamiliar, professional. “What do you want me to do?” Arthur asked, and, thank god, there was no hint of a slur. “I’ll do it, I swear to god, I’ll do it, I just. I need you to be here, I need you to be here so badly. I don’t care what you want from me, I’ll do it, just come back.”

He took a breath, and the phone cut him off between one inhale and the next.

The next morning he woke up with a pounding headache and no missed calls. He couldn’t remember what he’d said, but he was sure it was true.

*

Arthur ran into him when he hadn’t expected to, had lost Eames’ trail until he’d turned up on Arthur’s proverbial doorstep, a last-minute extractor Arthur’s architect had called in.

“Arthur,” Eames said in greeting, and Arthur had no idea how much warmth Eames’ usually put into his name until it was gone, his voice a slate wiped clean. Eames had a tell every time he’d said Arthur’s name, had made his feelings obvious, too obvious, dangerously so, and Arthur had never noticed.

Some days, Arthur knew he deserved what he got. Other days, he still knew it, but he wrapped himself in self-pity, let it encase him like a security blanket, and didn’t know how to settle without it.

It felt like one of those days.

“I can drop out of the job,” Arthur said, all a rush, empty words. Eames looked tired, days of stubble, shadows beneath his eyes. Worn and thin and Arthur wanted to suck in the sight like sunlight.

“It’s fine,” Eames said.

Arthur opened his mouth, but Eames pushed forward without letting him speak.

I trust we can be professionals about this?” Eames asked.

“Of course,” Arthur said, smiling weakly. “I define the word.”

Eames laughed, a short, mirthless bark, and Arthur wanted to throw up, but instead he nodded at Eames, a jerky parody of acceptance, and hid at his desk, digging through records until his eyes were stinging with fatigue, until the warehouse echoed with emptiness, and then he put his face in his hands and just breathed.

*

The job went off without a hitch, because it was Eames, and it was Arthur, and they’d always worked well together. Arthur was a professional, and they kept working well.

They’d all gone out for drinks, after, a sort of impromptu tradition in the business, but the architect had begged off after two drinks, the chemist after three, and then it was just them, staring at one another over a lacquered table.

“So where to next?” Arthur asked.

“Arthur,” Eames sighed, low.

“It’s just a question,” Arthur said.

“It’s never just a question with you,” Eames said.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, not sure what he’s apologizing for.

“You know, I loved you,” Eames said, tone conversational, but belied by the way he scrubbed a hand through his hair. He looked tired. He always looked tired, now. Arthur could hardly remember when he hadn’t. He looked tired, like the sight of Arthur was enough to do it, and that burned low in Arthur’s stomach, a pit.

“I didn’t know,” Arthur said, dumb.

“You didn’t know,” Eames repeated.

Arthur could only shake his head.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames said.

“I love you,” Arthur said, the words tripping over his tongue, because there was nothing else for him to lose. Eames looked at him for a moment, hard, until all Arthur could do was look away.

“I think we’ve both had enough to drink,” Eames said, threw bills on the table, a multi-coloured blur, at least two currencies rubbing up against one another.

“Eames,” Arthur tried.

“Good night, Arthur,” Eames said, and when he walked away, Arthur ordered another drink for the road.

*

The next time Arthur saw him, Mal was dead, and Arthur couldn’t think of much at all. Eames had shown up for the funeral, lurking in the back, looking less comfortable in a suit than anyone Arthur had ever met. Arthur had met his eyes for a moment before he was distracted by the clutch of James’ hand in his, a little sticky from lunch, a little desperate with confusion.

Eames met him outside the church, and Arthur gave James over to Miles, stood as tall as he could manage.

“You alright?” Eames asked, and Arthur started to nod, the same response he’d given everyone, because it wasn’t his wife, it wasn’t his daughter. But it was Mal, who glowed, and his nod got lost somewhere.

“Arthur,” Eames said, and it was the first time in awhile he hadn’t said Arthur’s name like a curse.

They ended up getting drinks, drinks and more drinks, and sometime in the night, one of Arthur’s laughs turned into a sob. Sometime in the night, Eames took him back to his hotel room, seemingly miles above the city, and folded Arthur into his arms until Arthur didn’t know what he was crying over anymore.

Eames said “Darling, darling,” over and over, and Arthur pretended that he meant it, but in the morning he woke up, rumpled suit, and Eames looked at him like he was a stranger again.

*

They did inception. There wasn’t much to say about it, not much Arthur could say, other than the obvious.

Eames seemed more himself, more tan and less tired, treating Arthur like a younger brother, maybe an old fuck. It was better than the exhaustion, so Arthur took what he could get. In the plane, after it was all over, Eames shot him a smile that felt new, for all the times Arthur had seen it before.

By some mutual decision, they stood beside one another waiting for baggage, close enough to share heat. By mutual decision, they crushed their suitcases into the same trunk, took a cab to the same hotel, got the same room, Eames putting it on some card that was undoubtedly not under his name. By mutual decision, in the elevator Eames kissed him, and Arthur held on as hard as he could.

The next morning Arthur woke, and there was no sign Eames was ever there, no note. It was what he’d expected all along, and this time he realised it was what he’d deserved from the start.


End file.
